Sometimes I think, if I could just write well enough, I could seduce you. Perhaps I should say seduce you again, because you were once seduced. By me. By us. By what you thought I was or what you thought we were. Now…
What are we now? What have we become?
I lay here in bed, in the bed I share with you, watching you across the room. You stand in the doorway of your closet, sliding shirts across the rail, trying to choose one to wear tonight. I love the sight of your back, of your shoulders, of the slightly-softer V of your body as it narrows (not as much as it used to) to your hips.
I love that, specifically that, how your silhouette has softened with age, how age has softened all your edges.
I imagine running my hand down your back, a finger trailing along the ridge of your spine, to the crease of your ass, before cupping it…
I find my hand trailing down my own body, across my stomach, over the mound of my sex.
Perhaps you feel my gaze; you look over your shoulder at me.
I freeze in the act: caught. You turn completely to face me, the shirt forgotten in your hand. Slowly, my eyes never leaving yours, I start again.
Feather light touches dance across my labia, feeling their softness, these plump, bulbous lips that hide all the lovely inner folds of my vulva, of that welcoming wet tunnel inside me. I feel their slickness now, and then the throbbing nub of my clit.
Your eyes have widened, but never left mine. You have become so still I wonder if you are holding your breath. My hand is beneath the coverlet, but I know you know what I am doing. I push the blanket back; hear the sharp intake of your breath. You have been holding it.
I let my legs fall open, my head fall back. I slick the warmth and wet across my lips, around my clit thrusting up so insistently; a moment later my fingers are buried deep in my cunt. I hear a moan – mine – and a groan – yours. Then your weight is upon the bed, your warm breath in my ear, on my neck. Your hand cupping my face as you kiss the line of my jaw, pulling me toward you, our bodies fitted together, puzzle pieces snapping to. I open my eyes and see my own desire reflected in yours; you breath my name against my mouth.
It no longer matters who or what we are, just that we are, you and I.
(This post was one of the many posts I have in “draft” status. I don’t recall the impetus for the story, if it was real or imagined, I just read the first couple paragraphs and knew I had to finish it. I’ve got 50+ posts in draft mode left. I may have to set a new challenge to myself to finish them once I weed out the “should be trashed” posts.)